


giving up, giving in

by fluffysfics



Series: punk rock never dies, and neither does the Master [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Punching Nazis, Racism, punk Master, rated M for mild smutty stuff and mild depictions of violence, the Master’s time on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: It’s been a long, LONG time since the Master let himself stop and consider his feelings. Doing so is going to hurt, but he can’t put it off any longer.
Relationships: The Master (Dhawan)/Original Male Character(s), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: punk rock never dies, and neither does the Master [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696336
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	giving up, giving in

_Hello?_

_Hey. Sorry for sneaking out this morning._

_What? Oh. That. ‘S okay._

_No, it’s not, I owe you._

_Yeah. Maybe._

_Can I come over tonight? I want to talk._

_Got plans, can’t cancel. Tomorrow?_

_Tomorrow’s good._

_See you._

The Master ran over his phone conversation with Cricket for the thousandth time in his head, gaze fixed grimly on the street ahead of him. Ugh, he was _nervous_. More than that, he felt...on edge, but not the edge of anger. On the edge of something far worse that he wasn’t quite sure how to define. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do, but May seemed to think it was necessary. She was usually right. 

Besides, if it was a choice between talking to someone _once_ or having the next four shitty decades of his life on Earth ruined by the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the Doctor in bed, he’d take the talking. Thirty four years without sleeping with anyone was _way_ more than long enough. 

So here he was, twenty four hours after the most awkward phone call of his life, prowling down a street littered with empty bottles and mildly racist graffiti towards the shitty flat his friend lived in. Friend. _Friend_. The word still felt odd in his head, like something that wasn’t quite supposed to be there. Certainly wasn’t supposed to be applied to a human. 

Reaching the building, the Master pressed the buzzer for the second floor flat, and waited. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from swirling around his head; couldn’t stop himself from thinking about _her_ , even though that was exactly the thing he was here to apologise for. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. 

“Oi.”

He cracked an eye open, and found himself faced with two young men, both mean-faced with shaved heads. Exactly the sort of people who liked to yell insulting names at him from street corners when he was busy trying to buy himself lunch. Honestly, the Master had hoped to be done with that sort of thing, regenerating into this body from Missy. Apparently, though, humans found endless things to be disgusting about. 

“Hello,” he said, as sweetly as he could, which clearly took the boys off guard. Their reaction to this was to step menacingly closer, in an attempt to scare him. Oh, he was really _not_ in the mood to deal with racist abuse. But...perhaps he was in the mood for a fight. Might as well have some fun, take his mind away from his troubles for a minute or two. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to see this cute boy I’ve been hooking up with. He’s awfully charming, I’m sure you’d—“

That was as far as he got before a fist caught him squarely in the cheekbone. The Master felt the skin split, and he grinned. “Oh, _good_ punch. Very refreshing. Come on, boys, got any more where that came from?”

Another fist swung towards his face, accompanied by an enraged shout that he was pretty sure contained several slurs directed at more than one part of his identity, and the words ‘ _go back to where you came from_ ’. Ha. He ducked this punch, driving his fist into his attacker’s guts. He doubled over, coughing, and his friend charged forward to have a go. 

“Go back to where I came from?” The Master dodged another punch, and slammed his fist _hard_ into this one’s nose. He felt it snap, and didn’t bother resisting the manic grin that spread across his face. “Oh, don’t I fucking wish. I’d love to go back to where I came from. Spit on the ashes a few more times, steal a TARDIS, and go hunt down the Doctor. Scream in her face until she feels bad for stranding me on this fucking- _shithole_ \- planet. D’you think that would work? Nah, probably not. She’s far too fucking sanctimonious for _shouting_ at her to work.” 

“You’re fucking _mental_.” The first one had apparently recovered from being punched in the stomach, and was staring at him like he’d seen a ghost. The Master grinned, and debated snapping his neck. 

“Harry? What the-“ 

His grin faded immediately, and he spun around to face Cricket. 

“They attacked me,” he explained, the manic, _icy_ edge suddenly gone from his tone. 

“Get the _fuck_ out of here.” Cricket stalked towards the skinhead who was still upright, six feet of green hair and eyes filled with _rage_ , and he promptly grabbed his groaning, bleeding friend, and bolted. The rage faded, and suddenly Cricket was all concern. “Harry? Are you alright? You’re bleeding.”

Was he? The Master lifted his hand, noticing several split knuckles. And- yes, he’d been punched in the face. Now that the initial shock was fading, that was starting to _hurt_. He welcomed the pain for the clarity it brought to his head, but maybe this wasn’t the sort of clarity he needed right now. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Dealt with worse before.”

“Yeah. Well. You shouldn’t have to.” Cricket grabbed his arm, surprisingly assertive, and pulled him inside. “I’ll clean all this up. Think I’ve got bandages for your hand.”

“Really, I’m _fine_.” The Master wasn’t quite sure why he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Insisting that he was fine was easy, perhaps; easier than anything else he’d have to say to Cricket. Easier than apologising, or telling him about the discussion he’d had with May, or opening up about his _feelings_. 

If he stopped saying he was fine, the Master was suddenly very aware that he _wouldn’t_ be, anymore. 

“I don’t care,” Cricket said as he dragged him up the stairs. He was strong for a human despite his general lankiness, the Master noted idly, just to distract himself from the rest of his mind. “Fine or not, that was- they could have really hurt you, Harry. They could have had _knives_.” 

Oh, wasn’t that a thought. Regenerating on a dirty London street because he’d been stabbed by some degenerate filth of a human. He’d have to run after that, and quickly. Forget about having human friends, because Cricket and May and Tasha couldn’t know who he was. They wouldn’t recognise whatever new body he turned into, and if they did, they’d probably have him locked up. 

Why was he thinking like this? _Adrenaline_ , his rational brain supplied. _Numbs pain, speeds up thoughts and reactions_. 

Hey, at least he wasn’t thinking about the Doctor. 

Cricket shouldered open the door to his flat, and the Master found himself being pushed towards a ratty sofa. He sat without complaint, feeling somewhat like a sack of potatoes. 

“Why do you have bandages?”

Cricket paused halfway through rooting around in a cupboard, brain clearly trying to catch up to why he’d just been asked that. The Master supposed the bandages comment had been rather a while ago now. Oops. 

“My mum worries about me. Sent me some a while back,” he said sheepishly. “They’re useful.” He turned back from the cupboard with his arms full of bandages and cotton wool and antiseptic. 

“Oh.” The Master closed his eyes, and sank back against the sofa. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and he was left feeling sore and unpleasantly sick about the prospect of having an actual conversation after _this_. 

“I’ll do your face first.” Cricket sat down next to him, the sofa dipping under his weight. The Master heard a bottle being opened, liquid being tipped out onto something, presumably cotton wool. “This is going to sting.”

“I’ve had w-“

“ _Don’t_ say you’ve had worse.” 

The Master bit his tongue, and tipped his head to one side, and let Cricket clean out the cut on his cheek. It _did_ sting. He gritted his teeth, and said nothing. 

“Done. Can I do your hand?” The Master nodded. He opened his eyes again, offering Cricket his bruised, bloodied hand, and almost had to laugh. That felt like some sort of symbolism. What a fucking mess he was, compared to the clean, gentle hands now holding his and wiping away the blood and dirt. 

The hand hurt even worse than his face, and when it was clean, Cricket insisted on wrapping each of his fingers in a layer of bandage, and then wrapping more around his whole hand. 

“I can’t move my fingers,” the Master complained. 

“You’re not supposed to be able to. Don’t try.” Cricket was being terse with him tonight. No prizes for guessing why, the Master supposed. 

He sat miserably against the sofa as Cricket put the medical supplies away again, and then vanished off into the kitchen. He came back with a glass of something clear, and handed it over. The Master sniffed it. 

“What’s that?”

“Water, Harry.” Cricket rolled his eyes, folding his arms where he stood. “Drink it.” 

He did. It didn’t help settle his stomach. 

For a long minute after that, he was quiet. They both were. The Master let the silence drag on until it was excruciating. Cricket, as it turned out, had more patience than he did. Fuck. Fine. He’d talk. 

“Sorry.” There. Apology done, out of the way. 

“For what?”

_Fuck_. 

He sighed. 

“Sorry that I fucking cried on you in an alleyway like some stupid drunk teenager. Sorry that I left in the morning without saying anything. And sorry for- _this_.” The Master flopped his bandaged hand. “This was shitty. I was an idiot.” 

Well. That was more non-angry feelings than he’d expressed out loud for...close to a century. Surely that had to be enough, because he thought he might be sick if he had to apologise much more. 

“The last one wasn’t really your fault.” Cricket moved to sit down next to him again, closer this time. He was warm. “I forgive you. For all of it. You’re my friend, Harry, even if you are an _idiot_.”

This human was too sweet for words. The Master had to bite back some strange, counterproductive urge to mock him for it, to lash out and defend himself after being made so vulnerable. After making _himself_ so vulnerable. 

“Thank you,” he said instead. The Doctor would be proud of him for opening up. He could practically see the pleased smile, the sparkling eyes, the-

No. No, no, _no_. His head had been so clear up until now, but she always found her way back in, always, _always_. He loved her, he hated her with every fibre of his being, he was-

_Obsessed_ , May had said. And she’d said that the best way to deal with it was to accept the thoughts, accept his lack of control over them, and give in. 

The Master hated giving in, it was against his entire nature. 

“Fucking hell, I need help,” he said to Cricket, and then before he knew it he’d buried his face in his friend’s shoulder and he was sobbing as though his hearts were breaking. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. How long had the need for this been lurking inside of him, that it could sneak up on him so suddenly and so completely? 

Cricket, for his part, wrapped an arm around him and held him tight, and didn’t say a word. The Master felt shame burn through him at the very notion that he was _crying_ , crying on a _human_. Ordinarily that shame would have hardened into anger, but something in him seemed to have come loose, and he couldn’t summon the fiery rage that would burn all of this abject misery out of his head. So he let himself cry, because he didn’t have a choice in the matter. 

Eventually, it stopped. It felt almost pathetic to stop, so much aching sadness reduced to one tiny whimper and then...nothing. No screaming, no punching, just...an awful, empty throb where his hearts should be. The Master was reminded of the days after he’d wrecked Gallifrey, when all the anger had burned itself away to nothing and he’d been left sprawled on the floor, staring in numb disbelief at his TARDIS console for days until the vague idea of a revenge plan had wormed its way into his head. 

He had no revenge plan now. He had the human whose shoulder he’d just soaked with tears, whose eyes he was now too embarrassed to meet. 

“...Sorry,” he murmured. 

“‘S fine,” Cricket murmured back. “You want to talk about it?”

“ _No_.” 

“Do you _need_ to talk about it?” 

“You’re too perceptive. Stop it.” That was almost a joke. Something resembling an attempt at humour. The Master let out a snort that might have been laughter, and it turned into another strangled sob. 

“C’mon, this t-shirt was clean before you came over and you just soaked it. I’m owed an explanation.” That was much more clearly a joke, and the Master breathed a shaky sigh and lifted his head. He hadn’t cried like that since he was a child. Since he’d had Theta’s shoulder to bury his face in, when the drumbeat in his head got too much to bear and it all came rushing out at once. 

That was another thought about the Doctor. Okay. No need to get angry about it, just- let it pass. It _would_ pass. 

“You’re cute even when you’ve been crying,” Cricket said, offering him a tissue that he’d pulled from somewhere. It took a few seconds before the Master remembered to take it, having been thoroughly blindsided by that statement. _Cute_?

“I talked to May,” he started. 

“Uh oh.”

The Master had to hold back a laugh, a genuine laugh, and then he decided that was too much effort and just let it out anyway. Cricket beamed at him. 

“...I talked to May,” he tried again. “She didn’t take the piss out of me, for once. She’s the one who convinced me to call you yesterday. And... I told her about what happened when we were drunk, and I told her why it happened. That I couldn’t stop thinking about...Jade.” The human name he’d assigned to the Doctor never quite did her justice, but it was good enough. “May told me that I needed to learn to give up control.” He paused there, resisting the urge to let his face twist in reluctant disgust. “And then it would be easier to deal with thinking about her.” 

“Surprisingly good advice,” Cricket mused. “We should all listen to her more.”

“That’s what she said to me when she was done giving the advice.”

Cricket laughed. “Sounds about right. So. Giving up control. What’s that mean?”

The Master shrugged. No, that was defensive, try again. He owed Cricket everything right now, he could bear to hold a proper conversation with him. “It means... I want you to kiss me. And don’t stop.”

“Gonna have to stop eventually. I like breathing,” Cricket said, the objection very half-hearted. The mention of kissing had clearly piqued his interest. 

“Don’t stop until you have to,” the Master amended. “You going to do it or not? I-“

Before he could get another word out, Cricket’s lips were on his, and the Master felt himself being slowly pushed to lie down on the sofa. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth and the soft fabric and Cricket’s soft _lips_. 

Maybe it was the fact that he’d recently been punched, but everything felt a little like it was spinning. The Master felt hands pressing against his shoulders, keeping him pinned, and for a moment his thoughts went to the Doctor, to being _trapped_ \- and then one of those hands squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, and the thought passed. He moved to rest his own hands on Cricket’s back, holding him and kissing him with all the dazed passion someone who had been crying less than ten minutes ago could muster. 

“You taste all salty,” Cricket murmured when he broke away. He didn’t look much like he cared. There was a look on his face that was so soft, so sweet; the Master wanted to look away. He wasn’t sure that he could, even if he tried. 

“Sorry?”

“No, don’t be. I don’t mind.” The Master let out a hum of acknowledgement, and then he was being kissed again. 

The last time he’d let someone hold him down and kiss him had been- Gallifrey again, an older Theta deciding he felt bold and wanting to take control for once. He hadn’t been very good at it. It had been adorable. 

Cricket was better at it, the Master thought, letting his mind slip easily from one thought to the next. May was right; it was easier to move on when he didn’t let his brain zero in on every thought about the Doctor, when he just gave up and accepted that they were happening. 

The warm body on top of his pressed closer, and the Master had the presence of mind to think hard for a second, pressing into Cricket’s head the suggestion that he wouldn’t notice the second heartbeat. He’d already been almost caught out once, he wasn’t about to let it happen again. 

A second later, Cricket’s hand slid down his side, wrapping around his hip and holding it in place. The Master half-wanted to question _why_ , but he didn’t need to- hips pressed down against his own, grinding against him, and he broke away from the kiss with a moan. 

“That’s- that’s-“ 

“Good?”

“Yeah. Do it more.”

“Thought you were supposed to be giving up control,” Cricket teased. “Gonna do my own thing.” He shifted, and the Master felt lips press against his neck, still so, _so_ soft. 

He could take back control. _Make_ Cricket do what he wanted. 

He didn’t. And it was almost disturbingly easy not to, to just tip his head back and let himself be kissed. Cricket didn’t make himself easy to hold onto, between the skinniness and the spiky hair, so the Master settled for curling his non-injured hand into his t-shirt, and shutting his eyes again. 

He wondered how far he’d be able to push this. How long he could stay relaxed, surrender control without worrying about it. He was surprised that he’d managed to go this long. Crying was not generally conducive to _relaxing_. 

Cricket pushed a hand up under his shirt, and the Master’s eyes snapped open. Okay. Apparently he could push this _that_ far. 

“I hate to do this to you again,” he murmured. “I want you. Really, I do, you are _unfairly_ hot. But I can’t-“ He stopped, trying to organise a good reason in his mind. Nope. “I just...can’t. Not now. Not after...this.” Not when his eyes still felt dry from crying, every nerve frayed and raw from more emotions than he’d let himself have in years. 

Cricket pulled back, and pressed a brief, soft kiss against his lips. “I get it.” He shrugged. “Rough evening. Don’t think I’d be in the mood if I was you.” He sat up, perching himself in between the Master’s splayed legs. “Stay the night?” 

“...I think I might.” 

“Promise you won’t sneak out?”

The Master met his gaze, Cricket’s eyes holding his like the most innocent black holes in the universe. “I promise.” And it was a promise he would keep. “I...thank you, for this. Thank you.” It felt a little easier to say every time he repeated it. “I feel better, because of you.”

“You’re goin’ soft, Harry.” Cricket didn’t sound like he minded at all. He stood up, nudging the Master’s shoulder. “C’mon. Bed’s bigger than the sofa.” 

The Master stood up, and let himself be led through to the bedroom. In the morning, he had no idea how he’d feel. Whether the residual sadness would have crystallised into disgust and anger, whether the Doctor would have filled his head again, or whether this...strange, soft emptiness would linger. He hoped it was the last option. Not being angry was such a pleasant novelty. 

In the morning, if he didn’t find himself overwhelmed with the urge to punch or stab something, the Master thought he might let Cricket kiss him again. Maybe they’d get further. Maybe they wouldn’t. 

Everything was uncertain. 

He found that he didn’t really care, anymore. 

Let the future be uncertain. He had what he needed, right here. Friends, better friends than he’d had since he was young. Friends willing to _help_ him, who didn’t want to change him any more than he wanted to change himself. 

Perhaps most importantly, for the first time since those last doomed months in the Vault, the Master had hope that he _could_ change himself. And this time, he could do it _his_ way. 

**Author's Note:**

> you have no idea how satisfying it feels to get to tag a fic with ‘punching Nazis’, would HIGHLY recommend if you haven’t done it already :D 
> 
> hope y’all enjoyed, comments and kudos appreciated as always <3


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